Who's the Idiot Now?

I admit: the utility of what I know is debatable: Fred "Mr." Rogers is an ordained Presbyterian minister. Henry Mancini (late composer of such classics as "The Pink Panther" and "Moon River") wrote the theme to the TV show "What's Happening?" The programs "Perfect Strangers," "Family Matters," "Full House" and "Step by Step" all co-exist in the same fictional universe because either Steve Urkel or a member of the Winslow family has appeared on each of them.

But knowing something "irrelevant" could prove useful in the most unlikely of situations. After all, knowledge is power--and what's more, in the world of game shows, knowledge is directly translatable into cash prizes and valuable merchandise.

I grew up hearing people tell me, "You should be on `Jeopardy!'" so often that eventually, I started to take them seriously. When I got to college, however, I discovered that everyone here has been on "Jeopardy." It's the ultimate Harvard cliche. So I scrapped that idea.

Meanwhile, I inadvertently joined Harvard-Radcliffe Television (HRTV) and found that I loved making television as much as I loved watching it. One fine October day during my sophomore year, my HRTV cohort Mandel Ilagan, game show guru, told me about a new MTV game show in development that was looking for contestants (no, not "Singled Out"). It was a quiz show called "Idiot Savants," which tested players' academic and pop culture knowledge in exchange for valuable merchandise (no cash prizes, unfortunately). The opportunity to benefit from the sheer mass of the junk I had stuffed into my head over the years snared me easily.

After a preliminary screening via phone and a trip down to New York City to try out against other potential contestants, I got a call from MTV asking me to come for a taping the week of Thanksgiving. Whoa. I had my chance.

The show had a novel format: for five days straight, the same four contestants are assaulted with questions from categories like "Name That Hair," "Pastahead" and "Where's Coolio?" Each game has four rounds. At the end of round one, the person in fourth place becomes the "dunce," sits in a corner and has to wear an ugly orange and green floppy jester hat. For the final round, the top scorer is placed in the "Cylinder of Shush" (sort of like the "Cone of Silence" on "Get Smart") and competes against the clock, with 45 seconds to answer 10 questions from his/her "Savant Category" (pre-chosen by the player during the audition process). At the end of the week, the player with the highest cumulative score is crowned "Grand Savant" and wins the grand prize.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I took the train into New York to tape the show. As I walked into the studio receptionist's office at the Hotel Pennsylvania, a burly behemoth of a security guard sitting in the back of the room noticed me. "Name," he grunted.

"Murad Hussain, I'm one of the contestants today."

"Oh, you're the guy from Harvard, right? Just wait over there for the production assistant."

I sat down and something about the wait snapped me into a paranoid inner dialogue. "The MTV producers probably hope you'll be their fall guy," I thought, "the overly studious Ivy League student who doesn't win because he can't get his nose out of the books long enough to know jack about pop culture. Most viewers would probably get a kick out of seeing a Harvard guy wearing the dunce cap. Sure, maybe you think you're a TV junkie, but anything you screw up'll look like cluelessness. A hundred bucks says they play the `Harvard Guilt' card: if you win, it was to be expected because you go to Harvard. But if you lose, the fact that you go to school in Cambridge will let them turn your failure into a manufactured `comeuppance'...."

After a few minutes, I soon met my co-contestants, went through make-up and, after many comments on my resemblance to actor Peter Gallagher, walked onto the set. I was immediately assailed by the art-deco-neon-overload-meets-industrial-constructi on set, complete with a live band, stacks of old books as props, local stand-up comic Greg Fitzsimmons as host, two attractive brunette "hostesses" (Heather and Shonda) in tight pastel blue outfits and a giant brain sitting in the center of the set. "`Jeopardy' on acid," I thought.

After taping the first episode, I was ready to pack it in. Although I had narrowly avoided the dunce box, I didn't make it past the second round. I buzzed in on one question the entire game, correctly identifying Yasser Arafat by his beard. That most likely did wonders for my image among the viewing masses, who were probably saying, "Oh, look dear, that ethnic-looking kid with the last name `Hussain' correctly identified the leader of the PLO. Hope he loses."

Game two began more auspiciously, when Fitzsimmons asked a question from the category "Superheroes":

"On TV, Linda Carter--"

I rang, "`Wonder Woman.'" Correct!

I almost made it to the "Cylinder of Shush" that day--but not quite. Finally, with game three my luck changed during the speed round. Fitzsimmons: "If X equals three, solve the following equations: two-X--"

I rang in. "Six."

"Correct. X plus five--"

I rang in again. "Eight."

"Correct. Four X minus--"

As he finished saying "one," I rang in, "Eleven."

"Correct. You're a freak!"

If being able to do seventh grade math quickly means I finally get to win the game, I thought, then yes--I'm a freak.

Game four went pretty much the same way, and I soon found myself in the "Cylinder" for the second time in a row. At the end of game five, the top two contestants (myself and a guy named Josh) took turns in the "Cylinder" answering our "Savant Categories" (his was chemistry, mine was "Star Trek"). I answered enough to keep my lead and so I won the whole game, which gave me a trip for two to Egypt and Israel and other assorted goodies.

Maybe I was in shock, maybe I was disoriented by all the music and lights and shouts of the crowd, maybe I believed implicitly that because I was from Harvard, I simply had to win. Whatever the reason, I wasn't all that surprised.

Once the episodes aired that December, I couldn't go anywhere on campus without being recognized by someone I didn't know. And even though "Idiot Savants" was canceled in the spring of 1997, I still owe the folks at MTV a debt of thanks for finally giving me the chance to make useful the useless things I knew. On the air, there were no mysteries, no shades of gray. Every question had an answer, every answer had a point value and at the end of the game, I knew just how much everything I knew was worth: a TV, a surround-sound stereo system, a free vacation, leggy pastel-clad women clinging to my arms in celebration as the closing credits rolled, a front page photo in The Harvard Crimson, recognition by drunken partygoers, the list goes on and on.

I spent a grand total of 150 minutes on air--five 30-minute episodes. My apologies to the nine other people whose fifteen minutes I stole.

Murad, a psychology concentrator, lives in Eliot House. He enjoys HRTV, spelunking and playing jazz--preferably for money.